


Glamorous

by temporalgambit



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Belly Rubs, M/M, Pre-Kerberos Mission, Sickfic, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-29
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2019-01-26 08:17:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12553184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/temporalgambit/pseuds/temporalgambit
Summary: The truth of the matter is, neither one of them is where they want to be right now





	Glamorous

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt:
> 
> "Pre-Kerberos Shatt emeto?”

“This traveling press tour thing isn’t nearly as glamorous as I thought it would be.”

The blasé comment catches Matt so off-guard that he nearly bursts out laughing. “What did you expect, Mr. Shirogane,” he finally replies, “red carpets and ice sculptures?”

Shiro nods. “And cocktail parties where the shrimp isn’t p—poisoned,” he hiccups into a cupped hand. Matt subconsciously leans forward, ready to shove the waste bin beneath him, but Shiro’s posture relaxes after a moment.

Not for the first time that evening, Matt thanks his lucky stars for his shellfish allergy. Still, he has to tease, “You don’t know it was the shrimp. Could’ve been one of those private start-up space exploration companies, come to weaken and kidnap you. Good pilots are in short supply, you know.”

“Then where are they now?” Shiro laments, “I hear they have innovative new tech and good conversation, but all I see here is _you_.”

“You wound me.”

“Good, sometimes you n— _oh,_ ” Shiro’s whole expression twists, and he squeezes his eyes shut tight against what must be one hell of a tummy cramp. He’s pressing forcefully into his abused stomach, fingers flexing spasmodically as he tries to ride it out. Again, Matt prepares himself to dive forward if need be—it’s not the most pleasant job in the world, but someone has to do it—but Shiro finally puffs out his cheeks and lets out a slow, relieved breath.

“You good?” Matt asks when he’s relatively sure his services will not be needed.

Shiro nods, slowly opening his eyes once more. “I’m good. What was I…?”

“Something about me deserving your scathing commentary, I think.”

“Right.”

The truth of the matter is, neither one of them is where they want to be right now. They’re four days into a two-week Garrison-funded press tour, and instead of promoting the excitement and wonder of space exploration, they’re still holed up in their second hotel while Shiro barfs his guts out.

Matt isn’t nearly as adept at schmoozing with high society as his crewmates, so under normal circumstances he’d be glad for the opportunity to rest and recharge away from the public. But this isn’t exactly restful, and—scathing commentary aside—he doesn’t like to see his pilot laid up in such misery like this.

Stupid cocktail shrimp.

Luckily, the Commander is doing fine holding his own against the barrage of flashing lights and shouted questions—at least, from what they’ve managed to catch on TV. Hopefully they’ll be able to catch up with him in a day or so, if Shiro’s stomach ever decides to settle.

Shiro hiccups, burps, and groans, rolling over to put his back to Matt and curl tighter around his aching belly. Matt sighs, crossing the distance between the two beds to sit by Shiro’s head. He runs his fingers through the sweat-soaked bangs over the other boy’s forehead, humming in displeasure at the heat lingering there. Starved for comfort, Shiro leans into the touch, a little involuntary whine escaping his throat as his stomach gurgles ominously.

Matt drops his hand from his partner’s forehead, hesitating for only a moment before placing it in the vicinity of Shiro’s middle. “Is this okay?” he asks softly.

Shiro nods. Matt rubs a small, experimental circle through his sweat-soaked t-shirt, trying to soothe away some of the tenderness there. At this range, he can hear as well as feel the uneasy bubbling of Shiro’s insides, and he can’t resist the urge to lean down and give his upset tummy a little smooch. The look on Shiro’s face as he flushes to the tips of his ears is priceless—and the blush only deepens when Matt applies a little pressure and a grumble makes its way up into an airy belch. Shiro looks mortified, but there’s a tinge of relief there too, so Matt does his best not to laugh.

“S—sorry, I—” Shiro hiccups, slapping a hand over his mouth, and Matt really _would_ laugh this time, except—

Except then his shoulders roll forward with something that is definitely _not_ a hiccup, and Matt has less than a second to snatch the can off of the floor and shove it beneath the other boy’s face before he’s all-out gagging. A pathetic stream of thin liquid trickles against the plastic lining, and Matt cringes at the rawness of the dry heave that follows it. Shiro barely has anything in his stomach _to_ throw up at this point, but the few sips of water and two saltines he’d managed about an hour ago make a swift reappearance.

Matt rubs his back, strokes his hair, does anything he can think of to make him feel even remotely better. Shiro is just panting now, saliva dripping from his lips as he hovers anxiously over the container. He manages one more unproductive heave, the collapses back into Matt’s lap, spent. Matt pulls his drenched bangs away from his face, fanning him with his other hand. They sit in near-silence for a moment, then Matt has to ask, “You feel any better?”

Shiro’s lips move for a second without any sound, then he clears his throat and tries again. “Kinda, yeah. Tired.”

Humming in sympathy, Matt reaches for the glass of water perched on the bedside table. “Rinse your mouth.” He holds it to Shiro’s lips, then helps him lean over the side of the bed again so he can spit.

Shiro does, mumbling something into a closed fist as he suppresses another tiny burp.

“What was that?”

“The _glamour_ , Matt. This is it. We’ve finally made it.”

Matt rolls his eyes, but pulls Shiro closer to his chest anyway, hands lightly ghosting over his midsection. “Next time, _I_ get to pick the fun activity we get up to while we’re shirking our Garrison-given duties.”

“Deal.”


End file.
